I knew a red bird
Lived in a pink heart
Came out and sung
When the sun came up
Like a red breasted cuckoo
From flower-forest heart.
I let that bird fly just where it desired
I cherished how it sang and never got my fill
Of its propensity to daystar trill. — A Happy Accident, Annette Marie Smith
The night comes with freight cars of dreams strung out behind it. The smoke of darkness spills from its smokestack and a long low wail, that could be a train’s whistle, rides the rails of your ears to your nervous system depot. It could be a train whistle or it could be the caller of souls. — Annette Marie Smith
The wolves kept their word that night and for every night thereafter, through countless nights and long years until their mortal eyes could watch over her no more. But by that time they, and she, had become something larger than their original selves.
She became the very pith of vulnerability, a goddess in her own right , Fides Quae, whose strength lay in the fragile line, like an exposed throat, of trust. The wolves leapt into the heavens and became the constellation Lupus Immortalis. Their eyes glitter with all the endurance of diamonds lit with the fire of wild hearts in the eternal night of space.
They watch over the hearts of those that despite having every reason to be wary, give themselves to trust in the same way that a sleeper gives herself to dreams. — Annette Marie Smith